Tom felt defensive. Who was this strange silver-haired boy? Were his eyes a genetic abnormality? He’d never heard of anything like it. What was he doing living with his uncle? Was he a friend, a paid help, a servant? And Zita too. How had she ended up here when she seemed a creature of cities and parties?

And why had Jack asked him to watch them? He’d called them his domestics. That meant servants, didn’t it? Then that’s what they must be. They were always short with each other. A couple, maybe, come to help Jack with the endless tasks of running the farm and the house. No wonder the farm was rundown, if there were only three of them working on it. And Zita hardly looked suited to farm work. Nor, for that matter, did Kit.

Kit put his boots on and stomped towards the kitchen door, where he waited for Tom to come to him. He was clad entirely in black, his silver hair like a halo. He was strikingly handsome, but he didn’t seem aware of this fact, looking awkwardly to the side.

‘Uncle or no nuncle, you still maun help wi’ the work.’

There it was again, that country dialect. The steady ticking of a clock in the kitchen; the chirrup of birds outside. A pair of bluetits fluttered around the branches of a cherry tree, darting back and forth.

Kit took from his pocket a silver chain. On the end of it was not a watch, but a piece of round glass like a lens. He put the glass to his eye and grunted.

‘Safe. An’ Master’s up in his rooms.’

He strode out, before Tom could ask him what he was doing, and Tom followed. Zita rolled her eyes as he went and flicked a soap sud at him.

The farmhouse was on a little island, surrounded by a moat. A wooden bridge crossed towards the south, where the woods lay; there were a couple of weedy fields. To the north, another bridge led to the path that Tom had come down when he’d arrived.

Tom found, as they crossed the southern bridge, that he was rather surprised to see a large shed, in which he could make out the outline of a tractor. Next to it was some relatively well-kept stabling, and he was pleased to see the head of the black horse poking out, chewing gently.

‘So … what does the farm, you know, farm?’ asked Tom as they walked, after he’d gone to stroke the horse between the ears. He didn’t know much about the seasons, but he’d have thought that in early summer there might be crops growing, or animals to tend. It was warm, and he was walking quickly to keep up with Kit.

The silver-haired boy did not answer.